Dear X, I can't stress
enough that I'm
no longer the same
person I used to be.
For one thing, I get off
to bed much earlier.
For another,
all night, the best I can do
is lie
flat awake and wonder
about you—
while the thunder
booms its consecutive
far-off
black mushroom
cloud epiphanies; only they're
speaking all at once, and their words
are so loud, and too close together,
and spouted far
too quickly
for me to catch many
of the nitty-gritty details.
But one
thing about this still strikes me
as being
more or less interchangeable:
my apprehension
of the falling rain,
might be
the same place
where the rain is falling.
I don't mean:
maybe internally,
I am actually the same
person I used to be;
I mean:
maybe it is—sincerely
raining
here, inside me.
